


A Name to Remember

by Watashi_wa_Okami



Series: Oneshots no one asked for [9]
Category: Gintama
Genre: Dadtoki, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Writing, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Protective Big Brother, Protective Big Sister, Self-Acceptance, Shinpachi Appreciation, Shinpachi Becomes his Own Man, Shinpachi's Grown so Much, Shinpachi-Centric, Swordfighting, Trust, lots of trust, mutual respect, tsujigiri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28566792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watashi_wa_Okami/pseuds/Watashi_wa_Okami
Summary: Shinpachi would walk to and from the flat more often, spending the night less and heading home earlier each night. But through that lonesome walk, a chill had begun pricking at the back of his neck. His hairs would stand but he wouldn’t look. At least, he wouldn’t be obvious.It’d been too quiet. And for too long. They have far too many enemies for that to be a coincidence.
Relationships: Sakata Gintoki & Shimura Shinpachi, Shimura Shinpachi & Shimura Tae
Series: Oneshots no one asked for [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1516460
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	A Name to Remember

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen a fic like this so I had to create and post it. Personally, I fell in love with the idea.

Kabukicho has been quiet. Uncharacteristically so, but only a few would complain about that (a few, as in not many, as in two idiots and a dog.)

Shinpachi doesn’t mind the silence. He gets to hear birds in the morning (instead of screeching,) he gets to keep the fridge stocked (more people are hiring them!) and it’s been peaceful (so, so peaceful.) Day after day of… nothing.

At first, Gintoki and Kagura tried to make their own mess of things. But after a while even _they_ got bored. Gintoki had even complained that _Takasugi_ should make a move, or even Katsura could just turn evil and be the villain for an arc. Or two, if things didn't pick up after that. Though they should, or so he had said. They'll get cancelled if things stay stagnant for too long!

But Shinpachi didn't really mind. It was nice, quiet, and he was able to spend more time with the Fan Club and in the dojo. Most of his time was spent walking to and from the flat, stocking the fridge, going out on jobs, and he hadn't spent the night at the Yorozuya in quite some time. There was no need to, no one had gotten injured and he had no reason to stay so late that Gintoki would make him sleep over (on the expectation that he'd make breakfast.)

Yet while Shinpachi had found himself leaving earlier and earlier each night, he'd arrive at home at the same late time, moon high and stars twinkling. He couldn't help but wander. The streets had grown peaceful and slow. But through that lonesome walk, a chill had begun pricking at the back of his neck. His hairs would stand against his will but he wouldn't look. At least, he wouldn't be obvious. He knows better than that. But each shadow had been ominously empty, dark and cold but empty, leaving little more than the essence that _something_ had been there only moments before he had looked.

It’d been _too_ quiet. And for too long. They have far too many enemies for that to be a coincidence.

When he’d spoken to Gintoki about it, the man just shrugged.

_“Guess we’re getting some action soon. Relish in this while it lasts, Megane-kun.”_

Of course Gintoki wasn’t scared. And while Gintoki had also taken to eyeing the door or startling at every knock (not as obvious as Shinpachi, but the man's eyes would widen and he'd stare long and hard at the door before opening it,) he doesn't seem distressed. As if no one had stared at _him_ from the shadows.

Shinpachi wanted to trust Gintoki and those war-honed instincts. The man _always_ picked up on the danger, and while he wouldn't always tell Shinpachi or Kagura, they'd learned to notice the signs. They could feel when he'd bristle in anticipation, muscles taught underneath his baggy yukata. Though he was always calm (not always, no, Shinpachi could remember clearly the feeling of Gintoki being _not_ calm. He still could feel it so strongly, a sense of impending doom that could still the air and steal their breaths. It would send their skin crawling and they could hardly hold a conversation without peaking over their shoulders. Thankfully, it wasn't a scenario that happened often. But in its rarity, it terrified anyone nearby.)

Gintoki hadn't thrown them for such a loop in a long time. Almost _too_ long. _The calm before the storm,_ Shinpachi couldn't help but shiver at the idea. If this eerie calmness were any indication of the storm to follow, they'd better brace themselves.

But Gintoki hadn't set off any alarm bells, hadn't given them vague warnings nor had he blatantly told them to _keep an eye on each other._

Nothing. And Shinpachi wants to trust the man, he does. But this time feels different.

Shinpachi can feel it, he can feel those eyes, piercing, _waiting._ It leaves him tossing and turning at night, sleepless with heavy bags under his eyes that almost remind him of Gintoki's (though he knows the man's are far older, deepened by traumas Shinpachi doubts he'll ever understand.) More often than not, Shinpachi finds himself jolting awake in the middle of the night, eyeing the corner of his room, covered in a cold sweat that leaves him trembling and weak, scrambling to find his trusty weapon.

He finally understands why Gintoki sleeps with his bokuto in reach, a thought that's both comforting and yet... not. Not when he knows the _why_ and how it's brought from sheer terror that leaves you panting and frozen, eyes wide in the expectation of never closing again. Ever.

He knows he’s still young and naïve. The alarm bells ring but he can’t pinpoint the _why._ Not easily. He never had been able to and, well, that’s not something Gintoki could help him with.

Oh, he’d try, with some kind of incentive, of course. Probably as revenge. Shinpachi could imagine it - an obstacle course full of all of their friends trying to scare the daylights out of him in different ways. All sending him their own version of killing intent.

And involuntary shiver travels down his spine and he stops in his late walk. He's headed home as he does every other night. And, like the other nights, he had fallen into his thoughts and wandered aimlessly, allowing his feet to drag and plod slowly along a beaten path.

The streets are mildly empty. It’s dark, yellow street lights flickering and shadows staggered. Lively enough, Shinpachi breathes, there’s laughter bouncing off the buildings and people are just heading to the bars.

But, the gaps are large. Dark - a chill travels down his spine. But Shinpachi, again, just breathes. It settles in his gut and tugs at the base of his throat but he manages. Slowly his heart calms, (he reaches for his bokuto,) and he closes his eyes.

Again, they’re ringing and the eyes that follow him prick, gaze sharp and it stabs at him in sharp pulses.

But there’s no sudden rush of nerves down his back. Breathing isn’t hard and, while he is trembling, it’s only in his legs (not his hands, he’s better than that.)

So, he walks and takes one step at a time. For the entire block, those eyes remain. They don’t leave him for a second. He could almost imagine hot breath fanning the back of his neck. He can almost hear the _shiiink_ of a weapon being drawn.

His grip tightens, tugging at old blisters and hardened calluses.

He breathes and turns the block.

The sensation vanishes so abruptly Shinpachi collapses. The gravel presses at his knees and stabs his palms but he can’t stand, not yet. He pants, harshly, heart beating in his ears, thundering so loud that for a second he isn’t sure it _is_ his heart. But he can feel it pulsing in his palms, his knees, his chest, even and warm but quick alongside his breaths.

His face warms, mostly around the eyes (the cheeks,) and his ears burn. His throat clogs and his damp eyes burn.

Shinpachi breathes. He keeps it steady. _In, out_ , focusing on it until, finally, he can feel his legs. That sensation travels up. Slow, but he’s in no rush. He just breathes and gasps until his heart doesn’t thunder and his arms don’t tremble.

It takes him a moment (and the aid of the wall) but he manages to stand up on legs that still tremble, hollow in their weakness but steadying slowly with each step.

Now that, _that_ was real

* * *

“Shin-chan! Welcome home, where have you been?” Tae’s words ring in Shinpachi’s ears. He responds mutely, a nod of his head and the flash of a smile. No words. His throat’s still tight and there’s a burning behind his eyes and in his gut. Anything he'd say would just worry his sister, and a worried Tae can be dangerous. Demonic, even.

She follows after him, covered feet padding along with his own, soft but steady.

Shinpachi doesn’t stop. His sword stays pressed to his palm and his gaze remains low, trailing worn wood that he had often stared at years ago through those old days of self pity.

“Shin-chan.” Shinpachi stops right outside his door. Slowly, he raises his arm and looks to his bokuto. Then, he tilts his chin up and stares at his door (a little above eye level, Tae notices.)

He exhales before finally turning to meet Tae’s gaze. For once, she isn’t smiling. But he is. It’s a small smile, one that twitches at the edges and his eyes don’t crinkle in the slightest. But it sticks and hardly trembles.

“Aneue.” She doesn’t say a word as he turns back to his door and slides it open. “You don’t have to worry.” The door clicks shut behind him and Tae just stares at it, a hand to her heart. And while her brows furrow and she chews on her lip, she forces her lungs to release, sigh nearly silent.

She walks away with a soft smile on her lips and a light laugh trickling out.

The next day, when Shinpachi leaves the Yorozuya, Gintoki follows him out. They stand by the door. Gintoki plays it off, picking his nose as he looks elsewhere. Shinpachi can’t help but smile, though he hides it in his shoulder as he slips on his shoes. Gintoki’s red gaze drifts onto Shinpachi, stoic but oddly straight.

Shinpachi looks right back, brown eyes dark but steady. Then Gintoki just shakes his head, a smirk playing at his lips as he turns from the door.

“Be careful,” he says. Shinpachi freezes and stares at the broad back, watching as that man head for the tv he so loves to drink the strawberry milk he so desires. Shinpachi blinks rapidly and he watches the setting sun illuminate that mophead. Every now and then, the title makes sense. _Silver Soul._

When Shinpachi turns around, right there, right beside the door is that all-familiar _Lake Touya_ bokuto. Shinpachi doesn’t sob but his chest does constrict and his face warms. He smiles, small and with damp eyes, before reaching for the weapon.

The handle is still warm, imprinted with a familiar shape, but as Shinpachi curls his hand around it his fingers fit in worn slots. He feels the engraving beneath it and stares down the blade.

It’s wooden, brittle and worn, stained in different browns and chipped at cheap edges. It’s unreliable and always breaks in the major battles (although typically at the end.) But Shinpachi can see why Gintoki uses it. It glints in the sun, it’s sturdy, and it’s carried the power of Gintoki and his enemies many times over (well, not this _exact_ one.)

From his desk, Gintoki watches that door click shut. Kagura asks some question but Gintoki hardly responds except through a low hum.

“The sun’s gotten low,” he muses.

“Huh? Yeah, it’s gotten late. Gin-chan has lost more screws, yes? Oh, what is a mother to do!”

Shinpachi takes the same route. But this time, the feeling happens earlier, practically right as he leaves the flat. This time, the chill travels down and he doesn’t even blink. Just keeps walking as it raises his hairs and coils in his gut, just keeps walking until he reaches a fork in the road.

Last night, he’d gone home. This time, he takes the other route. He fights to keep his steps steady though they tremble, and he keeps his head up. Eyes straight in a way he’d always admired, except maybe a little less dead fish. Maybe, but he feels his face relax and his eyelids somewhat droop against his will.

One exhale. Slow, low, and he steps to the center of a familiar bridge. He stops and, in one slow movement, draws his sword. He doesn’t turn around until he hears the unmistakable _clack, clack, clack,_ of another walking on the wooden bridge. They stop in two hard steps, waiting.

(Shinpachi tries not to think about how many battles Gintoki had fought on this bridge, feet pressed against this wood as he fought with this sword. He hadn't chosen this location consciously but... it had been purposeful.)

Shinpachi turns around. His heart thuds in his ears and his adam's apple bobs, hard, but he creases his brows and stares at the ronin. The night’s on its way and with it a chill that grounds Shinpachi. It cools his face and resets his nerves, forcing that tingling sensation to disappear.

In the spare sunlight, Shinpachi can only catch the cloaked ronin’s mouth and the gold of their sheath. The smirk they crack is clear as day (but not nearly as arrogant as Gintoki’s, not even close.)

“You’re the Shiroyasha’s disciple.”

That throws Shinpachi for a spin. He almost barks out a laugh but he catches it in his throat and thickly swallows it down. His instinct is to argue and his face catches fire, ears burning and nose flaring.

Gintoki’s disciple? The man was a lazy good-for-nothing, a useless old man through and through. He didn’t even train himself. How the man stayed fit for battle Shinpachi had no idea (although recently Gintoki has been helping out more with the dojo.)

He was _not_ Gintoki’s disciple. But the idea makes his heart churn in a chest-tumbling way. A warm numbness spreads up his chest and he trembles, thoughts spinning.

_The Shiroyasha’s disciple? The Shiroyasha would never have a disciple._

But then what was Shinpachi? The most unlikely candidate, he knew that much. He was a weak Cherry Boy with a Sister Complex that didn’t have enough strength to raise his sword when he needed to. He was weak. His bushido was cracked and broken and lacked any willpower. Hardly a samurai, he can admit that now.

Yet the Shiroyasha - _Gintoki,_ he always corrects when people call him that. Yet _Gintoki_ had taken one look at Shinpachi, and, without directly saying anything, took Shinpachi under his wing.

The Shiroyasha, famously hardly the mentor type, known for his solitude and power that could never be passed down, had permitted Shinpachi’s presence. Not only permitted it, but had let him into his home every day and had accepted all random questions. With teasing, of course, on why would Shinpachi ever need to know a trick to beat a naginata (Gintoki later realized why,) but he always told Shinpachi. And he’d explain it in ridiculous analogies that always made sense in the end. He’d jokingly offer to actually train Shinpachi in it and, if Shinpachi proved he was serious, he _would_ show Shinpachi. He’d use a dojo naginata but typically he’d use his bokuto.

The very same one that’s in his hands.

So Shinpachi blinks before leveling the ronin with a hard gaze. He’s been in enough battles, he thinks, so he creases his brows, just a little, enough for them to crinkle. And he levels his gaze, brown eyes not trembling in the slightest.

In an exhale, his posture loosens, shoulders relaxing and the sword’s oddly light. He cocks a brow.

“What makes you say that?” The words roll of his tongue and he can practically picture Gintoki himself saying them. Vague, none of his cards shown.

He might’ve stayed still and trembled out a _how do you know that,_ or, more likely, _Ha, that idiot?_ He might still, if Gintoki were with him. But Gintoki isn’t here to control the battlefield in a laissez-faire sort of way. He isn’t here to casually intimidate them into submission or beat them to it. He isn’t here.

So Shinpachi shifts his weight and eyes the ronin.

The sun’s long gone but the moon is full, thick in its brightness. It shines on Shinpachi’s back and he can finally see the ronin in that pale light.

A _kasa_ keeps that face from his view but the bundle of gray hair on his shoulder and his lack of armor speaks volumes. He's confident, Shinpachi can see that much, and he must be a trained ronin. Perhaps he had fought in the war.

Images of Katsura and Takasugi and Gintoki flash behind Shinpachi's eyes, pictures of sword movements too fast for him to ever match blow for blow, a strength that makes Shinpachi tremble as he watches. And yet, looking at this ronin, Shinpachi doesn't falter.

“I know I won’t match up to the Shiroyasha,” he says in a voice that rumbles through his chest, gravely but as confident as Gintoki can be in lazy moments. “I’m not as naïve as these younger tsujigiri but-” Shinpachi drops his mouth at that and the rest of the words grow muffled. He’s quick to shut it, the _clack_ sharp but hopefully the ronin - _tsujigiri,_ Shinpachi corrects, hadn’t seen it.

The man finally draws his sword. It’s a slow movement and it glints a sharp silver in the moonlight all the while.

But Shinpachi’s seen a more terrifying draw in a one eyed warrior (he’d also seen someone draw a sword that made his heart swell in a tingle that traveled through his toes.) So his breath doesn’t hitch, he doesn’t even look at the sword. Instead, he tilts his head and tightens his grip on worn wood.

He can almost see his breath in an invisible fog, the night air sending a chill up his arms. But no goosebumps, he just breathes and readies his stance.

(Absentmindedly, he can't help but wonder at the Sword Ban. He'd run into many samurai that had ignored it, and while that wasn't unexpected it was odd how many they had run into. Just how many samurai couldn't bow down to the law, even if it was against their own government.)

He can’t fight like Gintoki nor can he read a person’s move before they know it themselves. So he ready’s a stance formed from his father’s and he places his sword on a horizontal plane. The man sets himself, too. It’s a form Shinpachi has seen before. Only a few times, typically in groups of ronin that were chasing them, but he recognizes it.

So, he prepares.

The man doesn’t move, not for a moment and Shinpachi watches the half of his face twitch, sword grip shifting before he spreads his feet further.

Shinpachi lets the ronin launch first. He predicts it, and again, and again, until he recognizes more and more. _A feint, above, the side, he’ll jump back._ And he does, he does it all. But the hits are heavy and leave the wood pressing hard, making his hands buzz in a coming numbness. He can’t help but flinch when the tip of the sword brushes his face or gets a bit too close.

How Gintoki fights so confidently against something like _this_ with a piece of inferior wood is beyond Shinpachi. By the time the ronin has hopped back, Shinpachi's panting lightly (wheezing, really,) and his hands burn, wrists and arms aching.

The other man is panting, too. Not as heavily as Shinpachi, but he is. And Shinpachi got a few hits in so he can finally see the man’s face and his narrow samurai-like eyes.

“I can see why the Shiroyasha took you in,” the man admits with a smirk.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Shinpachi says and he can’t stop the words. He tries to stay cockily confident but that strikes a chord in his heart. It thrums through his nerves, his hands, and suddenly those aches are dull. Unimportant.

It’s addicting and the pain falls into nothingness. This is all about Gintoki, about the Shiroyasha, and he can’t let this man go after him in the end. He needs to end this, here.

He needs to protect the protector (that sends a thrill down his spine and his muscles jump at the thought. He fights to stay still but the excitement thrums underneath his skin. It’s cheesy, he knows that, but it makes him have to fight a smile. For now, he’ll ignore the fact that a man Shinpachi can beat is a man Gintoki can throw away with a single attack.)

This time, Shinpachi advances. He doesn’t think about the moves, doesn’t question what he ~~knows~~ thinks the other man will do, he just _does._ With a grace that keeps him relaxed and his reflexes quick, he bounces around the male. Sturdy but light. Each swing precise yet confident.

The ronin is just as confident, swings just as sure - but, they don’t scare Shinpachi (the sword still does, it’s sharp and Shinpachi’s not stupid. But the man in question has _nothing_ on Gintoki or his sister or, well, everyone.)

He’d never trained with Gintoki, not like this. The man's lazy and careless and _so_ annoying. But he’d watched. He’d always watched when Gintoki seemed ready to fight, when he’d twitch as those alarm bells go off, when he’d change tactics and flip his attitude.

Well, he watched when he himself hadn’t been called elsewhere.

Shinpachi had never before felt so like the man yet so individual. They aren’t all moves Gintoki would do, but that permed idiot also doesn’t care about wounds of any kind. But it’s thrilling when he swings like Gintoki would, a powerful strike that the ronin can’t really block. It sends sparks through his arms as the hit lands and the man stumbles.

He pants, smile wide and the man steps back, smirk faltering.

Shinpachi knows he’s cut up, he can feel warmth soaking in his clothes and there’s an underlying sting to the excitement. But it isn’t bad, just scratches that’ll leave him looking like a mummy tomorrow.

His sister will hate that. Gintoki, too, in his own seemingly-selfish way.

Shinpachi gets a good hit in, a _really_ good hit. He weaved around the man and bounced off the bannister, used it to shoot around. The ronin didn’t have a chance to process the odd move - barbaric yet graceful - before Shinpachi’s sword was coming down on his head. The man tried to dodge but Shinpachi pushed, a cry tearing from his lips as he threw his weight into it.

Shinpachi had never broken a sword before, not like this. Not with all his might and _only_ his might using a _wooden_ sword. He isn’t strong, he isn’t exceptional, and this ronin isn’t a master.

Only the tip snaps, not the middle like Gintoki tends to do. It rings and goes flying. The ronin stepped back, stumbling away from the younger Samurai. Shinpachi leans forward, panting and sword low. He’s trembling but the smile hasn’t left.

The silver tip slips into the calm waters below, ring echoing and light ripples the only evidence that it had existed.

The ronin freezes and while the weapon's point is long gone, it still echoes in Shinpachi’s heart.

 _I won._ It’s nothing like the thrill of scoring a point in kendo. But it’s - it’s something else entirely. He’d laugh if he could, giggle if he wasn’t sure that someone would be rushing up soon. He’s not the silent attacker like Gintoki, but he likes that. Instead, the excitement makes his fingers tremble and his cheeks _hurt_ he’s smiling so hard. It’s childish and disrespectful to the ronin, he knows that but he finds he doesn’t really care. The man hadn’t even scared him.

He’d felt more killing intent from second-hand Gintoki (but then again, Gintoki was something special when he was angry. A well and true _demon_ through and through, though it hadn't scared Shinpachi in quite sometime. After all, he's also a diabetic good-for-nothing and Shinpachi had seen the man cry over JUMP.)

The ronin straightens his back and turns his sword, staring at it intently with crinkles around his eyes. He chuckles.

“You remind me of the Shiroyasha,” he says as he puts his sword back into his sheath and picks up a chipped hat. “But don’t worry, I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t seen the Shiroyasha myself.” That does calm Shinpachi’s heart, if only a little. He breathes and slumps in a heavy exhale.

“What’s your name?” Shinpachi asks. The man doesn't startle, just looks at the young boy. Perhaps he sees an up and coming samurai, one of shining potential. Perhaps he only sees a young boy holding a sword he had yet to fully inherent.

Regardless, he gives a small bow in the nod of his head.

“Hamasaki Sahimono.”

Shinpachi commits the name to memory and sears it into his brain. _Hamasaki Sahimono._

By the time Shinpachi gathers himself, the samurai is long gone. No one had even come to check on the commotion so he leans against the bannister and, for the first time in all this mess, he _breathes._ As if air were a sudden and fresh reprieve, as if he hadn't well and truly breathed in years, he intakes the crisp air, a giggle on his lips. The pain starts to return. It's a minor buzz spikes as he shifts his weight, and when he goes to strap the bokuto in his waist his arm protests, _heavily._ He can feel the blood spread as weak scabs crack open and he takes his first couple of steps. The blood's warm and had crackled over his skin, stiffening his clothing in a new way.

He’s closer to home than Gin-sans but he heads there anyway. He should go to his sister; she’d take care of him and worry over him properly. But he hobbled down the roads he had just taken. The lights flicker more here, quite unstable and a good amount of them have gone dark for good, yet he risks it anyway.

By the time he reaches Snack Otose and looks up the stairs, he’s forced to swallow the groan. Up there, right at the top, is a figure that glows in the moonlight. The silver moonlight, it really does compliment him well. He’s standing there leaning on one leg with his arms crossed over the bannister. Gintoki looks down after a moment, a hint of a smile on his face and dead eyes twinkling in a new way.

He saunters down the steps. Slow but sure, steady, not a hint of alcohol in his person. All the while, the shadows help hide his expression but Shinpachi watches those curly hairs bob and shift as the man scans him, searching for injuries.

He finds them but he knows wounds and he doesn’t race down. Shinpachi managed to walk back fine on his own and his face isn’t the sort of bloodless pale Gintoki’s familiar with. But Gintoki does help the boy up, supporting most of his weight and going his pace but not doing any more (it’s already a lot, most of the work, in fact, but he does it all with that bored 'be happy I'm doing this' expression. A smile can't help but crawl across Shinpachi's face, exhausted but no less serene.)

The stairs are hard. Each time he raises a leg the pain shoots down before soaring up, striking his lower spine and searing in the back of his skull. It makes his head spin and swirl every three steps, forcing him to sag against Gintoki and pause for a breath. The pain hadn't been so sharp before, but with the adrenaline having drained from his blood all that remains are sharp spikes shooting up his nerves.

How Gintoki does this when he's far more damaged is beyond Shinpachi, but the thought doesn't stick long enough for Shinpachi to really ponder on.

Gintoki encourages him with a squeeze of his arm or a push at his back. He doesn’t shove but he isn’t too kind about it. Still an impatient baby man, not that Shinpachi's surprised. After all, the man has a reputation to uphold (had Shinpachi enough energy to focus, he would have seen the hint of a playful smirk on the man's face, one that spelled disbelief in a curl of his lip, as if he were remembering his own reaction to such 'light' injuries.)

By the time they reach the top, Shinpachi’s nearly bent in half and toppling over. He doesn’t but his legs have turned to a warm jelly rather than a searing pain. No more usable. He takes a moment to gasp through the pain and squeezes his face tight, willing his ears to stop beating. He sniffles before forcing his back to straighten - as much as he can.

Maybe the wounds were deeper than he thought (though probably not. He’d been careful; his sister’s too scary to forget about for long.)

Gintoki helps him hobble into the flat. Kagura’s asleep, as is Sadaharu. He walks in and the dismal lighting offers him a glimpse of irregular reflection. Water. Then his eyes adjust and he sees a basin already set on the table, the first aid kit right beside it.

A smile forces itself onto his face. Thankfully, Gintoki ignores it as he sits the boy down and orders him to strip. His words are soft and he pads across the room. As Gintoki turns on the yellow light and takes off his yukata, Shinpachi undresses his top.

Gintoki doesn’t mention the stains on the lower part of his hakama. Shinpachi can deal with those himself, Gintoki knows that well. He's needed the boy to patch him up a time or two and Shinpachi’s proficient at it now (it happened, a lot.)

Gintoki sets about the cuts, dabbing at them with a lukewarm towel, eyeing them and holding pressure when the blood trickles out. He’s slow and inspects every one. But all the while he’s silent. Careful. Orders Shinpachi to move his arm in short words or ginger touches.

Shinpachi hasn’t often seen Gintoki take care of someone. Usually it was the other way around, it wasn’t often anyone was worse off than Gintoki. He never knew Gintoki could be so gentle. He’s still gruff, eyes a deadfish dull, but he doesn’t drift. Callused hands aren’t anything like a nurses, so he isn’t as gentle as a practitioner. But, by Gintoki terms, it’s as if he were handling a baby (although Shinpachi has seen the man handle a baby and… that statement’s pretty accurate.)

Shinpachi stays calm but he isn’t tired. The pain isn’t so sharp after all this care, background once more and not because of an overabundance of something else. Exhaustion tugs at him, pulling his eyes down and a yawn grows in the base of his throat.

He bites it back, though it pools in his mouth, and he can't help but let it out, silent and so wide it closes his eyes. He blinks blearily and tries to focus of _something_ but the consistent and predictable touches are lulling in their aggressive care.

“Oi, Shinpachi,” Gintoki pokes his cheek and he blinks a few times, eyes as wide as they will go but still heavy.

“Hm?” He hums up at the permed man and tilts his head back a bit.

“I’m done.” Shinpachi looks to the pink water and the first aid kit with contents strewn all over the table. _Ah,_ done indeed. His chest feels tight, restricted with a number of bandages as are his arms. But the pressure pushes away the pain in a comforting warmth. Gintoki does them tight but he knows what wounds need. He’s had to redo his own bandages a lot. He doesn’t like people to see him do it, doesn’t want to scold someone on their wrapping when they mean the best (it’s mostly Kagura, Shinpachi has realized.)

Gintoki sets Shinpachi up in his room. One futon's set out and carelessly fluffed. Gintoki helps him to it. Shinpachi would’ve walked on his own but soreness has begun to creep into his muscles, aching with soft spikes that ripple through his entire body and leave a phantom pain in their wake.

Shinpachi winces and pants as he lays down but Gintoki’s right by him. He slides a glass of water towards him and it rocks on the floor, leaving a trail of condensation.

“You won’t wake up easy,” Gintoki says but the words are muffled in Shinpachi’s mind, mixing and falling into nothingness. Gintoki keeps talking, rambling about JUMP this and something about Kagura needing to wrangle in Sadaharu, even if just a little bit.

That lulls Shinpachi to sleep, listening to Gintoki drawl on and knowing full well that the man won’t be going to sleep (he hardly ever does and while typically that fact bothers Shinpachi, it's a comforting assurance of protection.) But Shinpachi will. He smiles, tiredly, not even feeling the tug of his lips nor catching the pause in Gintoki’s words.

He drifts away into a painless bliss, the battle disappearing and taking with it all but the feelings, a fact, and a name. _Hamasaki Sahimono_ who told him he was a proper disciple of the Shiroyasha.

**Author's Note:**

> Can we appreciate how strong Shinpachi gets throughout the series?


End file.
